


Scars and tattoos

by kenwayallgetalong



Series: Scars and tattoos [2]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Backstory! Roxy, Defining scars, First Meetings, M/M, Scars and tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-06-10 00:13:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6930196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenwayallgetalong/pseuds/kenwayallgetalong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being international spies means you’ll be in more than a few scrapes, and you’ll earn more than a few scars. And, surprisingly, a few tattoos as well, to go with them.</p><p>Thanks to tallgiraffelady for reading and providing invaluable feedback.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gary "Eggsy" Unwin

Eggsy has far too many scars, especially for someone his age. His mum fusses over them, Harry purses his lips in disapproval, and Roxy is secretly interested in the stories behind them. 

Eggsy’s never let them phase him, always shrugging them off in his cocky stride. And his tattoos are his business. No one else’s.

Living in South London for most of his formative years and then becoming a Kingsman agent mean his scars are numerous and memorable. Yeah, he can’t remember every story behind them, but who can? 

There’s a scar on his right calf from when he was starting to practice parkour, leaping across the rooftops with Ryan and Jamal, but he didn’t quite make that jump, and ended up putting his foot through someone’s bedroom window. 

It was only when they’d pulled him back onto the roof and sprinted two streets away when the adrenaline faded, and Eggsy found the jagged piece of glass in his calf. 

A memory from when he started out. 

His other scars aren’t all nice memories. 

When Dean flew into his rages, he could get brutal, and Eggsy’s got more than enough scars to prove that (they did later come in handy as evidence when Dean was finally arrested). There’s a jagged mark on his neck when Dean flung a bottle at him when he was sprinting away from the pub after another scrap with Dean’s henchmen. 

A long line, tracing from just below his ear to under his chin, when Dean pulled a knife in rage after he found Eggsy nicking his cash. Eggsy still remembers hiding on the roof, pressing towels to his neck and praying that his mum didn’t find out. He pretended it was a shaving accident, but he knew she saw past it.

There’s one on his temple, hidden just under his hair. It’s a tiny nick, barely bigger than his thumbnail, but it’s the one he remembers most vividly.

In the early days, when Dean had moved in, and his aggressive side began to show, he remembered standing up to him, a tiny boy, barely a teenager, but so angry at this man who was hurting his mum. And Dean, barely even noticing Eggsy, reached out for the first thing that his hand found and smashed it across Eggsy’s head. 

The snowglobe his dad had given him, before he’d gone away and didn’t come back, cracked across Eggsy’s head into a million tiny fragments. 

And Eggsy cried hard that night, not only from the pain, but because, deep down, he’d lost that treasured connection to his dad, a man he barely remembers now.

He only has a few tattoos, one he regrets, and one he’d never change. On his 18th birthday, drinking with Ryan and Jamal, he’d got into a scrap with a mouthy bugger outside the pub who kept calling him “Eggy”. 

Yeah, it was stupid, but he let him get under his skin. 

After running from the scene, and the police, hiding in an alley with Ryan and Jamal, they dared him to get a tattoo. A perfect way to top off his 18th, they said.

And in Eggsy’s drunken state, there was only one thing on his mind.

And he has a tiny egg tattooed just under his right ankle. 

The other, he got with Roxy, when they woke up the day after V-Day, exhausted, and tired to all hell. He’d declared they had to commemorate their victory, and forced Roxy to drive out to the nearest tattoo parlour. 

While he was bubbling with excitement, Roxy sighed despairingly. He was dead set on getting the Kingsman symbol, despite Merlin’s repeated warnings that it was a huge security risk if it was ever noticed. “Where should I get it, Rox?” he chattered as they drove. Roxy sighed through her coffee, and muttered “How about your arse?” 

There was a brief silence in the car, and then Eggsy declared: “Fuckin’ perfect, Rox.”, a huge grin on his face, and Roxy belatedly realised that she should never issue Eggsy with a challenge.

Merlin was furious.


	2. Roxanne "Roxy" Morton

Roxy, in comparison with her co-workers, is slightly more sensible, and as a result, she does not have a collection of scars as intricate or detailed as the other Kingsman agents.

Still, a few have managed to collect through her years, and much to Eggsy’s surprise, so has a tattoo.

Roxy was an adventurous young girl, never taking no for an answer, and Percival and Lancelot were the perfect fathers to facilitate this.

Skiing? Pack your bags, we’re taking off in an hour.

Shooting? The range is already prepared and the guns loaded.

Horse riding? This is your new horse, his name is Passelande and he’s beautiful.

They couldn’t say no to the fierce young girl they’d adopted, and filled her days with the love and attention she needed, and were always a little bit more reckless than normal parents.

She loved it.

When she was eight, they were visiting Percival’s parents in Hertfordshire, and Roxy, inevitably, had wandered off to explore the grounds. There was an enourmous ancient oak tree, just at the edge of the lake on their property, and as soon as she saw it, she knew she had to get to the top of it.

She climbed carefully and dextrously, her hands gripping the weathered bark with ease.

She couldn’t remember falling.

She just remembered reaching up to a branch just out of reach one moment, then a sudden jerk, and she was on her back, looking up at the leaves of the tree above her, seeing green, green, green, the sun shining through the leaves, dappling her face with green light.

Percival and Lancelot found her barely minutes later, already having realised that ten minutes without Roxy in sight meant something bad had happened, and despite Roxy’s claims that she was fine, they fussed over her for hours, nearly fainting when they found the small cut on the back of her hand.

Roxy hated heights after that, couldn’t stand seeing the ground so far away from her. Every time her fingers trailed the back of her hand and caught the rough scar tissue, she shivered. In the plane with Eggsy, she couldn’t feel the scar through the thick parachuting gloves, and that only served to make it worse.

Only after it all, when she’d ascended to the rank of Lancelot, and taken on the role of The Brave, just like her father had, years ago, she knew she’d conquered it. She grinned with delight, and as her parents had told her before, she knew she could do anything.

Despite the pressures of her friends at uni, Roxy did not get a tattoo. She didn’t like them, she thought they were ugly, she flat out refused every chance she got.

Until one night, just before heading out with her friends, she got a call from her dad, and his strained voice told her all she needed to know.

She drove home immediately, and found him sitting by the fire, an empty glass of brandy in his hands, staring listlessly at the glass, his jacket flung across the back of his chair. “You missed the toast.” He said, looking up at her, a brittle smile on his face, tears reflecting in his deep brown eyes. She sobbed, and ran over to hug him. They sat there and held each other for a long time, one having lost a husband, the other, a father.

They remained there, sitting opposite each other long into the night, deep glasses of whiskey between them as he told her the truth of it all, what Kingsman was. “…and now James is dead. They want us to find a replacement by tomorrow.” He finished, staring into the dying fire.

Roxy’s head snapped up. “Me.” She said. “I want in.” Percival turned, words of sharp reproach on his lips. He and James had decided early on they would not expose her to the world they lived in. Not their daughter.

His anger died immediately as he saw her sitting there, her hands gripping the chair with a white-knuckled ferocity, her eyes blazing with resolve. How could he say no?

The sun was rising as they left the front room, but Roxy barely felt tired. Her dad was dead, and she was going to take his place as Lancelot. She was sure of it. She’d trained her whole life. She would become Lancelot.

She drove out to the nearby town and found the small tattoo parlour she knew was there. She arrived at Kingsman, Lancelot’s crest of white and red diagonal stripes on her right shoulder blade. And when training got hard, and she needed to be brave, her hand found the small crest on her back, and she knew she could become Lancelot. She had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Passelande' was the name of King Arthur's horse, if anyone was wondering.


	3. Harry Hart

Harry has no tattoos. He is a gentleman spy, through and through, any kind of identification as bold as a tattoo is a glaring error, and could cost him his life. Scars on the other hand? Well, they never said the life of a gentleman spy would be without pain.

Being a Kingsman agent for over two decades means you’ll have a damn fine collection of scars, more than enough to rival a cocky young upstart from South London.

Harry’s body is covered in scars.

There’s a scar on the back of his hand when an informant in St Petersburg turned on him and stuck a knife through his hand, pinning it to the table they were sat at and trying to run. They didn’t make it through the door.

A vicious scar on his upper thigh when he fell through a skylight in Washington after jumping out of a crashing helicopter.

A particularly nasty scar trailing down his back from a botched anti-drug operation in Burma.

A prominent bullet wound at the back of his head, courtesy of Valentine.

And there are a few others.

Despite Lee Unwin’s valiant efforts, Harry still got a small piece of shrapnel in his arm from the grenade, but he barely noticed until they were back in the chopper, heading home, minus one promising Kingsman agent.

His hands found the small, jagged piece of metal in his arm, and he found himself toying with it, moving it back and forth slowly, wincing each time as it dug deeper and deeper into his arm. James-no, Lancelot, he was Lancelot now, noticed, and quickly stopped him. Merlin grabbed the first aid kit and began patching him up, carefully removing the shrapnel and cleaning out his wound. As he tied a bandage around it, he looked up at Harry, who had been staring out of the window the whole time, watching the landscape whip by the chopper.

He glanced over his shoulder at Lancelot, who was cleaning his gun, then resumed tying the bandage. “What the hell were you doing, Harry?” he asked in a low voice, his Scottish accent even more pronounced than usual. Harry turned to look at him, his eyes glassy.

“So I remember.” He said, sounding as if he was underwater. Merlin swallowed, tied off the bandage, and they never mentioned it again.

In 1996, with the rise of Hamas a burgeoning threat, the Kingsmen had been sent into the Middle East, under the guise of SAS soldiers, in order to eliminate key leaders.

Galahad, Merlin, Lancelot, and Bors.

Lancelot, an SAS serviceman before Kingsman, was in his element, and the others followed suit, attaching themselves easily to a regiment allocated for their support: the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. In November 1996, there was an attack on a civilian hospital nearby, and they knew they could not ignore it.

Lancelot quickly organised and led the counter-offensive, pushing in to reclaim the hospital and evacuate the civilians. He was yelling orders when an unseen sniper, hidden in the buildings of the surrounding town, managed to get a shot off, taking him cleanly in the head.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Harry just registered this, before another shot cracked out, and he collapsed, numbly feeling the ferocious pain in his gut. He fell on his back, looking up at the starry sky, when suddenly, a young face, smeared with dirt and blood, appeared above him. “We got ya mate. You’re alright.” He said, pulling Harry behind cover, firing as they went. “Easy now.” They said, pulling out bandages.

 Harry sat in his tent that night, his abdomen swathed in bandages, radio to his ear. Merlin and Bors sat opposite, listening intently to Arthur’s orders. They had to find a new Kingsman.

Harry dropped his radio and rubbed his face, exhausted. Merlin slung an arm around his shoulder, and they sat there for a while. Bors rooted through his ruck, and found a small bottle of vodka. Pouring out a measure into tin mugs, they all looked grimly at each other.

“To Lancelot.” Bors said in his rough Welsh accent.

“To Lancelot.” Harry and Merlin echoed, tossing the vodka back. Harry winced at the taste, then put his mug aside and stood up, pulling on a rough cotton shirt, and leaving the tent.

He found the young soldier that had saved his life on sentry duty, pacing back and forth at the camp’s perimeter. He fell in with him, and walked in silence for a short while. “You saved my life.” He said simply. “Eh.” The soldier said indifferently. “Don’ mention it.” He said, scanning the horizon.

“My colleague died today.” Harry said. “We need someone to take his place.” The young soldier looked at Harry, surprise evident on his young face. “You offerin’ me a job?” he said, incredulous.

“Of sorts.” Harry replied evenly, holding out his hand. “Harry Hart.” The young man took it. “Lee Unwin.”

He later told Eggsy that story, pulling up his shirt to show him the gunshot wound in his abdomen, telling him how Lee Unwin saved his life before he’d even met him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a little bit of Lee! backstory as well.


End file.
